


Dusk raid

by die_eike



Series: Awakening Part I [2]
Category: Gargoyles (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fantasy, Gargoyles, Gen, Medieval Battle, Middle Ages, New York City, Novelization, Reads fandom blind, Scotland, Sieges, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_eike/pseuds/die_eike
Summary: 1994: Officer Elisa Maza attends an emergency call. A thousand years in the past, on the other side of the Atlantic, Vikings try to raid a Scottish castle. Both find something they are not prepared for.
Series: Awakening Part I [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008792
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Preface: Battle Tactics

**Author's Note:**

>   
> Have you ever wondered how your favorite cartoon would sound as a novel?  
> No, I am definitely not just retelling the plot.  
> Interested?  
> Then I invite you to the time of darkness, to the world of fear, to the age of Gargoyles.  
>   
> Chapter 1: Preface: Battle Tactics  
> Chapter 2: Elisa arrives  
> Chapter 3: Hakon is not happy with the morale  
> Chapter 4: A young archer is not happy with the Vikings  
> Chapter 5: Hakon gets gutsy  
> Chapter 6: Hakon gets told where to get off  
> Chapter 7: Princess Katherine is not amused  
>    
> Disclaimer: I do not own any property rights to the figures, magic or world I used in this fanfic, they are all Greg Weisman's and team/Disney's. I don't make money from this, it is just for fun.

From the book Nordic Battle Tactics and Warfare, private collection of D.A. Xanathos:

_From the Viking point of view, it was by no means judged cowardly or dishonourable to employ means of trickery and deception. And this was how they had made their mark in military history and won themselves much territory: because of their disregard for traditional fighting methods [...]. Their assaults came down on the enemy in a savage, but only seemingly undisciplined manner. Whenever possible, they attacked by stealth when the enemy was not fully prepared._

_The Vikings were undaunted by ethical concerns in their raids and plundering, and ignorant to religious prohibitions. Their values were founded on war itself: the warrior’s way was worth any peril because it remunerated so well in terms of adventure and spoils; and no casualities suffered could dissuade a Viking from his life as a warrior._


	2. Preface: Battle Tactics

Hakon

_994 A.D._

Hakon breathed in and inhaled the smell of anticipation.

His sworn men were shifting in their battle armour, leather creaking, and brimming with tension. Excitement or fear, it was all the same before the fight. He reached inside himself, but found only a calm curiosity. The confidence of an experienced warrior and a born leader.

A glorious sun was setting over the rough landscape, colouring the wide expanse of heathland in hues of red and orange. And there it was. Black against the blue evening sky the castle stood on the cliff; the battlements were covered in lengthening shadows, while turrets adorned with waterspouts gleamed invitingly in the last sunbeams. Tall rectangular towers supported platforms which could be defended by archery. Curtain walls enclosed the fortress, their only opening a heavily fortified gateway.

Given the defences, only a fool would expect an easy picking. He, however, he had come prepared. Men were shouting and sweating under the strain of dragging the siege tools into position. Cow and goat skins covered the mobile siege tower to protect it against fire arrows. The stone throwers were his special pride. Siege machines could not be transported on a long boat, but they could be built. Several weeks in the camp had seen how he had put his men to good use at the axe. He had brought the tools and his knowing, and taken from the land whatever else he needed. The wood of their own forests, transformed into deadly machines by the hands of his ingenious craftsmen, would be the doom of the castle’s royalty.

There had been some risk involved in bringing his men so close to the castle. Unfinished, the constructs had been vulnerable to sortie by the castle guard. But everything had turned out to his vantage. The Vikings had come as was their undoubted reputation.

Unforeseen.

Hakon felt a grin spreading over his face.

Viking strategy, that were fast mobile raiding parties, which would strike an exposed target and withdraw, eluding any forces mobilised against them. Who would have expected an organized siege? His cunning would turn today’s battle into his day of fame. His story would be told at firesides and toasts be raised in his tribute.

There was something else that stirred deep inside him, a feeling of elation that rose and finally filled the blankness in his chest. He was strong and battle-proven, he knew he could win any fight man against man. It just didn’t excite him anymore. Now, siege-laying was another level of encounter and he knew he could use it to great effect. The fortress seemed impregnable? He would storm and sack it and spoil himself with its wealth. Silver and gold, wine and foodstuffs. Slaves. Noblewomen.

He felt arousal at the idea of cracking this shell of a castle and savouring the seeds within. He thought about the plunder and knew that the spoil was worth it – he would be proven right to his men, even to the undeserving who were dumb enough to doubt his leadership. Contempt turned his smile into a sneer.

He gazed along the ranks of his men and even now could pick out those who were hesitating, those who stood at the fringes and spoke to each other in low voices that were drowned out by the music of warfare preparations. Superstitious fools.

His campaign at this remote stretch of land had begun by raiding some of the smaller villages along the coast. The loot had been meagre and soon not even the burning and raping could keep up the spirits of his men. In the next village they had taken, they had put the dwellings to the torch, and the people to the questioning. Before long, they had learned the location of a secluded fortress. And were told wild stories about angel guardians that protected it by night.

Gargoyles.

Hakon had had a good laugh about it and then honoured the blathering peasant by beheading him with his battle axe. He even had let some of the frightened villagers go, after they had amused him so much with their tales. He had been right to reckon that they would try to reach the stronghold to seek protection. Unknowingly, the spared peasants had confirmed the way for the scouts he had sent out behind them. When his men had come back with details on the castle’s garrison and terrain, a plan had begun to form in his mind.

His eyes wandered to the castle again. The catapults would provide the cover his men needed to reach the walls. The wooden tower would bridge the outer walls. Then, they could use their full array of weapons to press the attack and assault by escalade. His strategy was failsafe.

Yet, he had not expected for his men to be fooled by fairytales. The rumour about gargoyles protecting the castle was a thorn in his flesh. It could cost him the morale he needed for victory. Had he not shown his men goodwill and given them their proper pay? In return, the sworn had to be prepared to do all his commands, and to do so unquestioningly. What kind of a warrior denied their lord the loyalty he merited?

After this siege, there would be a disciplining. He felt that the thought did not disturb him. For he knew one thing: if not his reputation; the riches he would bring home would be enough to win him more men in the future. Now, it was time to fight.

“Attacking a castle full of gargoyles near nightfall. This is crazy, and Hakon knows it.”

The two stood with their backs to Hakon, ignorant of their commander’s presence. An icy cold filled Hakon. He drew himself up to his full height.

“No, my friend. That's not crazy.”

He let a heavy hand fall on the shoulder of the troublemaker and pulled the warrior towards him.

“Questioning my sanity when I'm in earshot - that's crazy.”

Blue eyes widened terror-stricken in a boyish face and Hakon roughly shoved the staggered man aside. He stepped in front of the sworn and let his voice become the powerful instrument for a motivational speech.

“I say those gargoyles are naught but chiselled stone. And even if they're not, it's worth the risk for the plunder within.”

He watched his men straining against their thirst for action after weeks of preparation. Hakon finally gave the signal for release, lifting his sword towards the red sky.

“Attack!”

With an uproar, the mass of Viking warriors set into motion, swinging axes and swords.

Arrows flew above iron helmets.

The raid began.


	3. Elisa

Elisa

_October 4th, 1994_

Elisa gripped the wheel harder when she reached the site of destruction. With evasive swerves she narrowly avoided the patrol cars pulling up next to her. She came to a halt with squealing brakes, right in front of a wrecked cab and a crowd of onlookers. Emergency vehicle lighting casted flashes of blue over the commotion.

It had been a peaceful start of a night shift, with the usual paperwork waiting in a stack on her desk, to be worked off in calm moments between debriefing sessions, operations and status reports. Obviously, the calm moments were under-represented. So she had taken advantage of the rare occurrence. Dutifully, she had immersed herself in the dull yet necessary task until she eventually got quite pleased by how the finished documents piled up to compete with the stack of those still in the pipeline. Satisfied, Elisa had taken a moment to stretch her legs and had poured herself a cup from the coffee machine in the squad room. She had sipped the bad but at least hot brew.

Glancing through the broad window adjoining the coffee machine, she had taken in the sight of dusk approaching Manhattan, turning the sallowness of an overcast afternoon sky into a black canvas painted with a myriad of colours. Windows had been glowing golden, car lights teeming, advertisement signs blinking tirelessly and colouring the rooftops.

Dusk was her favourite time of the day.

Elisa had felt a smile crossing over her face. Feeling refreshed, she had settled down at her desk again, to focus on the records of her latest case, a series of incidents at shops and restaurants in East Village. While having been reported as vandalism by the victims, she feared that there was more to it.

It was then when the phones at emergency call center had started to ring ceaselessly. She had pushed back her chair, feeling adrenaline surging through her veins, and given the paperwork an admittedly not very sorrowful last glance. She had found Captain Chavez in the corridor, in the midst of the ruckus. The Captain had already been engaged in gathering and making sense of the bits and pieces of incoming information. Their eyes had met. Chavez had given her a brief nod, which was all Elisa had needed to grab her jacket and car keys. She had hastened through the precinct building, a colleague from intelligence at her heels, no wonder sent by Captain Chavez, who had been filling her in with the few reliable details they had on the emergency, then adding some speculations. She had left him standing at the building’s broad entry door and exited the precinct in a hurry, speeding down the wide staircase to her car parked in front of it. The Ford Fairlane’s engine had burst to life with a welcoming roaring sound.

Although she considered herself a seasoned officer, she had been aware of the thrill rushing through her when she fixed the blue lights on her car roof with a practiced motion while steering the Fairlane into the traffic on the street. What distinguished her from her rookie years was the result of much hard work: she would not act on the excitement coming with the job, would not let emotions impede her clear thinking.

To the sound of the siren she had hit the gas.

When Elisa stepped out of her car, the pungent smell of something burning hit her, underpinned by stone dust. Explosions boomed in the sky, momentarily drowning out the sirens’ wailing. She gazed up to the clouds covering the Eyrie tower, which flickered bright red to the sound of ... _automatic guns?_

With a renewed sense of urgency, Elisa pushed through the onlookers who were watching the sky in both fear and fascination. An officer with a moustache was in charge, trying his best to keep the crowd at bay. He looked somewhat familiar, but Elisa couldn’t really place him right now. Maybe he was one of the recent transfers to the precinct.

“Get back! Get back!” He raised his arms in a defensive stance.

Elisa weaved her way to the front and pulled out her badge.

“Maza, 23rd.”

Relief passed over Moustache’s features at the sight of back-up.

“What's goin' on here?” Elisa looked up to the Eyrie tower, its cloud-veiled top ablaze with crimson flashes and explosions.

Moustache turned to face the same direction. “You got me, Detective.” The officer’s answer came in a breathless voice. “Must be a heck of a party up there.”

As if to prove his statement, a deafening bang sounded. It happened too fast to make any conscious move, but Elisa took two steps back while looking up – which probably saved her life. With an immense force, a stone boulder crashed down in front of her, its impact shattering the ground strong enough to knock her off her feet. The fall slammed the wind out of her. Pieces of steel came clanging to the ground; rubble and splinters rained down on her. She shook off the sudden dizziness and through the ringing of her ears, Elisa lifted herself up to seek cover behind the very rock that had nearly buried her. She crouched and held on to it for support.

She checked and found herself unhurt. _So far, so good_. The crowd had fled, she realized, only to stop and stare again after a few meters. The stupidity of it infuriated her.

“Get back!” Elisa made a shoving motion.

They finally conceded and retreated. She shook her head, wondering how some people could be so eager to wind up street pizza.

She was about to face the Eyrie building again, when she realized something odd. The stone surface under her hand was not even. It was engraved by four lines, each several inches long, set in a row with regular spacing between them. Elisa ran her fingers over the lines. The way of how they were carved into the stone... the lines starting as a thin crack, then forcefully widening and deepening, to dissolve into a nearly delicate fissure again... It did not strike her like the work of any tool or machine she could think of, but of something more... organic.

A loud cracking noise brought her back to the here and now. This time, she was warned. Elisa bolted away and narrowly dodged the debris falling in the explosion’s wake.

She made sure she was well out of rock fall region before she stopped and turned around. A fire hydrant had been hit. A fountain of water shot high up into the air. Drops of spray glittered in the headlights of the patrol cars, dousing her. Elisa closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing, to slow down her pounding heart and to compose her thoughts. Seeking warmth, she shoved one hand in her pocket and raised the collar of her jacket with the other hand. Who would have guessed that his night shift turned out to be one of those full of surprises.

A happy get-together of some sorts above a skyscraper involving explosives and machine guns. Collateral damage in the form of stone boulders threatening to flatten the strolling citizen.

She lifted her gaze to the Eyrie building, the skyscraper’s top veiled behind black clouds. A sudden sense of foreboding rushed through her, which only led to strengthen her resolve, her determination to find out whatever was at the bottom of this all. Her eyes searched for the rock with the lines again. She was sure of what she had seen, and felt.

 _But how could that be?_ , she wondered. _What could be strong enough to leave claw marks in solid stone?_


	4. The archer

Henry

_994 A.D._

“Fire!”

Henry let the arrow fly from his bow, down into the mass of Vikings, down onto the catapults with their relentlessly lowering and raising arms. The castle’s fortifications had suffered greatly from the onslaught. Corpses covered the demolished battlements.

Draw. Pull. Release. Draw. Pull. Release. He didn’t even stop to take aim.

They had tried to stop the Vikings' advance with hail after hail of arrows. He knew they were failing.

His stomach clenched, his hands, no, his whole body trembled, and cold sweat ran down his back. He tried to swallow. He felt that he couldn’t breathe anymore, that his windpipe was closing in on its own, working against the need to throw up.

He glanced over to Will and saw the elder aiming carefully, saw him releasing his arrow, fumbling for a new one. Their eyes met and Henry questioned him silently. Will shook his head.

“Damn!” he shouted over the clamour, “Henry, that’s it. We are doome-”

Will’s voice was suddenly drowned out by the terrifying whistling that announced another stone hurled into the air. The boulder crashed into the battlements where Hugh, Roger and Walt stood. Henry heard his own scream echoing his comrades’ gurgling cries as they fell. He kneeled and gave in to the urge to vomit. A strong arm lifted him up. It was Will, and he was dragging him away from the rampart.

“Stand fast!” a deep voice boomed. “We can hold them back!”

A figure like a bear stood before them, stout, muscular and broad-chested. The Captain of the Guard carried a spiked mace and was clad in chain mail, but bare-headed, so that his long hair flew wildly when he moved.

Henry felt Will’s grip on him loosen as the elder faced their commander.

“Aye, and catch boulders with our teeth while we're about it?”

“It's your choice, then, me lads”, the Captain said. He raised his mace and drew his sword with the other hand, stepping closer.

“The catapult, or me.”

Will hesitated for only a second, and then bolted back to the wall. Henry felt his legs nearly give away as he followed, stumbling, to his post at the crenel. While he tried to notch an arrow into his bow with trembling fingers, he glanced back to the Captain of the Guard.

“A few minutes more until sunset...” The commander was... chuckling, Henry noted with a strangely detached feeling.

“...then we'll see some fun.”

Henry followed the Captain’s gaze up to the figures of stone perched on the tower tops. Maybe Will had been wrong, and the Captain had been right all along. Maybe, as long as those catapults didn’t reach the statues, there was hope. He drew his first deep breath in what felt like hours.

Then he heard the whistling again. He did not turn his head. Instead, he pressed his eyelids shut. When the boulder struck, he was spared the experience of how his body flew into the air, how it bent and broke beyond repair. The being who had been Henry had already dissolved into merciful black oblivion.


	5. Hakon

Hakon

A row of grappling hooks descended on the parapets of the inner wall. Hakon tested the grip of his hook and felt the rope pull tight under his weight. Everything had worked out according to plan. They had overrun the castle's defences and breached the outer walls. The castle guard was as good as crushed. Ascending the inner ramparts now would mean triumph.

Hakon started to climb the tower, his men following behind, incited by the thought of victory being close. He didn’t feel any strain as his strong arms carried him up with ease. He permitted himself a glimpse at the scenery below.

The last rays of sunlight skimmed the horizon and drenched the battlefield in red colours. Light blended with blood. His men were a mass of shadows crawling up the walls, like black ants drawn to honey. They would sate their hunger soon. Hakon made for the merlon-crowned top of the highest tower. It would serve best for a quick inspection of the enemy grounds. And for a fine image to engrave into the memory of his men.

He came to the final stretch. The rope dangled precariously as he scampered up. Hakon felt a groan escape him. Then he reached the top and planted one hand firmly on the edge of the merlon. He breathed in heavy pants. His foot slipped – once, twice. Then he looked up and found himself facing a statue.

It was a massive bunch of stone, larger than any man and more muscular, yet nearly humanlike if not for the enormous wings sprouting from its back. It kneeled on the merlon, facing the castle’s exterior. Shadows accentuated the grim and unforgiving look chiselled into the statue’s extraordinarily detailed features.

A gargoyle. Hakon shivered. For a short moment, he understood how his men could be swayed by the stories of old, how they could believe that monsters existed. Then he shoved that thought away.

It happened just as Hakon tensed his muscles for the final climb. Thin cracks started to expand from the gargoyle’s brow. They spread over its face and across its neck. Hakon stared at the taloned hand resting on the tower fringe from which he dangled. Its stony exterior broke away. Sharp claws scratched over the merlon’s surface. Shards of stone rained down on Hakon as they fell from the statue’s broad chest, from its wings, from its whole body. Underneath, there was a shifting, living, breathing being. The gargoyle lifted its head and opened its eyes. They shimmered in an eerie white glow which receded when then they focused on Hakon.

He cried out in shock and pain when the monster grasped him by the forearm and hoisted him up with ease. It straightened and held him with its arm outstretched, forcing him to face it, emanating a low growl.

Hakon kicked frantically. He hung in the monster’s clutch, suspended high above the tower edge. From the corner of his eyes, he saw shadows moving. Shadows with wings, and beaks, and claws. The waterspouts on the castle top had come to life.

"You are trespassing."

The bass, rumbling voice conveyed an animal’s snarl.

Had he really heard the creature speak?

Hakon couldn’t tell if despite or owned to the shock, but finally his fighting reflexes took over. With his free hand, he drew his sword and executed a forceful swing aiming for the beast’s head. The steel blade whizzed through the air until it caught abruptly. Hakon watched as a trickle of blood slowly oozed beneath his sword - a sword that was wedged into the monster’s palm. He looked up to the creature. Its eyes had turned into a menacing blaze of white; its face was scrunched up in anger and pain. It snarled.

Hakon's blood was pounding in his ears and his focus returned. What bled like men could be beaten like men. He yelled down to the battlements below him, where his warriors were cornered by the beasts.

“Fight, men! They are not invincible!”

Hakon felt for a good grip against the wall with his feet. He tensed and pulled with all his might, yanking down the arm holding him.

The gargoyle lost its balance and toppled from the merlon in a headlong drop. In the moment the monster released him, Hakon reached for his rope. He grasped it and held on tightly as the line swung sideways in a wide arc. The gargoyle spread its wings and turned the plunge into an elegant glide over the heads of his warriors, spurring them to swing their swords at it.

Hakon felt a thrill thrumming in his veins and he grinned. He would indeed make himself a name today. He would battle this enemy, however formidable it was. This was what he was made for. He descended the rope onto the battlements and joined the fight.


	6. Hakon

Hakon leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for just a moment. The battle snarls and anguished cries were muffled in the dim passage; the clanging of steel on steel softened. His breath came in heavy, shaky waves. He fought to stand upright.

The monsters – they bled like men, but they were unlike men. They were stronger. They had claws as solid as swords. And they could fly. He had seen his strongest warriors lifted up into the air to be thrust down as heaps of bloody masses. He had seen horns and claws shredding leather and skin. He had seen how the beasts ripped and tore with their bare hands...

A growl. Hakon's hackles raised and he gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. When he opened his eyes, a creature of nightmares had stepped into his view. Four clawed paws landed heavily on the floor. The beast was as long as a man was large, but with the muscles of a bull. Its stocky trunk supported a round head with white blazing eyes. Rows of sharp teeth showed when the hellhound raised its lews. Its attack came in a swirl of movement. Hakon dodged. Talons dug into the wall. Stone splintered.

Then he ran towards a doorway, his sword a dead, useless weight in his hand. Flickering torches illuminated the entrance into long dark stretches of corridor. But there was something else glowing in the shadows. Hakon’s heart skipped a beat.

The demon’s eyes blazed like red coals in the dimness. It unfurled its wings, revealing a distinctly feminine form.

“Face me, human, if you dare.”

Her voice was ethereal, haunting. Then she grinned. She lunged forward and hissed, revealing pointed teeth.

Hakon’s feet carried him down the steps, back to the passageway. Back to the hellhound that awaited him in a motionless stance, growling. He was cornered. The world closed in to him and his foes. Sweat stung his eyes, his vision swam. The sword threatened to slip from his cramped and clammy grip. This would be it then, this was how he would end. A lesser man would grovel and beg. He felt light-headed. A prayer came to his mind and he sent Odin his best regards, adding some swearwords.

A huge form landed lightly on the ledge of the passageway.

“I see you've met our watchdog.”

Hakon stared at the immense, dark-coloured gargoyle he had witnessed awakening on the merlon. A sudden hiss made him cringe. The female stood inches apart from him, flexing her claws.

“And my second-in-command as well.”

The burly male stepped down from the rampart and drew closer. The monster suddenly gripped him by the front of his cloak.

“I grow tired of this. Take what's left of your men and begone.”

For a moment, Hakon was strangled by the grip on his garments. Then a forceful shove hoisted him into the air.

The impact was blackness, and crunching and splintering. It was a red hot pain shooting from his back and a sudden lack of air. When he could breathe again, he smelled animal. Straw scratched his face, poking into his nose and eyes. Trembling, he lifted himself up. The gargoyle had thrown him from the passageway onto a horse cart. Straw spilled onto the floor.

He would have died, if not for the wooden cart and its load. He _should_ have died... Everything inside him hardened. The demon not only had deprived him of his rightful victory. It had even wanted to bereave him of a warrior’s death. Shards of ice filled his belly. He raised his sword towards the figure stoically watching him from above the passageway.

“This isn't over, monster! I'll be back!”

He turned and ran.


	7. The Captain of the Guard

Robby

Robby was on his way to the Great Hall. He was late.

Torches lightened the corridors near the entrance of the hall, and the sounds of flute, harp and tambourine rose up to a merry tune, underscored by laughter and chatter. The smells of rich foods wafted through the air, and Robby was instantly reminded that he was hungry.

He also ached. Even taking a long time in the steam baths, scrubbing himself clean from the grime of battle and death had not bettered the dull pain in his back. Yet, it had not been the fight, but its aftermath that had really exhausted him. After the Clan had put the Vikings to rout, he had not rested. First, he had made sure his soldiers were attended to as needed – for the lucky ones, this meant black ale and fresh meat in the barracks, for the rest, it meant either the infirmary or the boneyard. Later, he had been about with the marshal and the steward, inspecting the damages and making plans. On the morrow, blacksmiths and masons and carpenters would be busy with the task of replacing weaponry and putting the castle’s defences up again.

When he had finally returned to his chambers for a rest well-deserved, a servant had awaited him. The Princess requested his attendance, at the impromptu feast held to celebrate her victory over the savage marauders. Patiently, he had donned his best quality clothes, a brown homespun vest covered with a dark woolen cloak. A tear on his vest had brought a grimace to his face, but then he had changed the place of his cloak fastener so that it covered the small hole.

Robby stopped at a short distance before the massive doors that led into the Great Hall. A group of a half-dozen finely dressed women was gathering at the entrance. Robby knew them as the princess’ ladies, lesser royalty from the countryside who were temporarily visiting the court. They all were very young, none much past twenty, mere girls who giggled and spoke under their breaths to each other. Robby cleared his throat to make his wish to pass known. Wary gazes from behind a fluttering of fans and eyelashes descended on him.

“My ladies.”

Robby forced his throbbing spine into the suggestion of a bow. Eyes narrowed as the delight on the flushed faces turned into frostiness.

“Captain.”

The woman nearest to him had spoken, then averted her gaze to the floor. Stiff curtsies and silence greeted him as he passed through the group. Heat rose up in his chest and made the blood pound in his ears. Robby swallowed it down. He suddenly yearned for a simple meal of bread and cheese in the kitchens.

The clamor of the feast engulfed him as he stepped into the Great Hall.

By day, the imposing high and beautifully decorated ceiling was brought to the fore by rows of large vaulted windows. Now, the roaring hearth, centrally-placed on the far side of the entrance, struggled to heat up the drafty room. The blaze lightened up the raised dais in front of the fireplace, while the coats of arms and the banners draping the walls receded into dimness.

The banquet was in full swing. The boards were arranged along the sides of the rectangular hall and opening towards the high dais, the benches as crowded with castle folk as the tables were packed with foodstuffs. Kitchen staff carried baskets of fresh bread and bowls of ripe fruit, liveried serving boys hastened to refill earthenware jugs to the brim with red wine or golden mead. The smell of roasted mutton mingled with the odour of sweat and furs. Dogs sprawled in the rushes strewn on the plastered floor or sniffed about the boots of the seated, waiting for a treat to be tossed or a bone to be dropped.

A particularly runty hound boldly jumped up the edge of a table and snatched a large chunk of ham from a plate. It quickly scurried away with its prize before risking discovery by either a serving lad or the remainder of the horde.

Robby made for the dais, as befitted his station. The Captain’s place was close to the platform, at a seat of honour near the heads of the boards. He wedged himself through the space between the wall, the bustling servants and the backs of those who sat, immersed in drink, and laughter, and conversation. Cutlery clattered on metal. Stoneware mugs bumped on wood. Robby could make out snippets of what was said here and there, although he wished he didn’t. He wasn’t interested in the gentry’s rumours. The thought of men wagging their tongues rather than using their fists to provoke and challenge, to overpower and defeat – it made him uneasy. He understood its usefulness, but he just wasn’t the type of man for this kind of game. _They_ were not his type, actually.

Robby gruffly pushed his way between table and bench and sat down.

Princess Katherine presided over the feast, enthroned in her high chair. Only the mage accompanied her on the dais. Clad in silvery glinting robes and wearing a heavy golden amulet, the tall, pale figure was regarded with marvel, even trepidation, by many of the castle folk. Not by Robby. Where they saw something mysterious, he only saw an upstart, a gangly youth with too many ideas about a station he too quickly had acquired. When in history had it been that sorcery had brought about any good?

The mage tasted from the red wine freshly brought up from the cellars and licked his lips. He ever so obvious stole glances at the princess from his half-closed eyes under the delicately curved eyebrows.

Katherine. The child neither took from the meat offered her, nor from the fruit. No, not a child. Robby furrowed his brow. He should have stopped thinking of her as Malcolm’s little daughter years ago, when she had reached womanhood. But he couldn’t. And so, the name _child_ slipped into his mind whenever he didn’t guard his thoughts.

But a princess she was, without any doubt. She sat before the flickering hearth, poised like a statue, and seemed to glow in the firelight. The dress she wore was elegant in its simplicity, and the quality of her burgundy gown outshone all the court ladies’ more fashionable fineries. Katherine, mocking convention, did not tie up her hair into the intricate braids and knots that befitted a princess. Instead, her coronet sat heavily on loose tresses. Only when she moved her head, the slick brown veil would part and reveal her swan-like, graceful neck. On matters of her hair, she was adamant, or so Robby had heard.

He sighed and watched the nearest meat plate with hungry interest. But before he could summon a serving lad, a smooth silky voice addressed him.

“Our thanks for a battle well fought, good captain.” Princess Katherine’s green eyes sparkled at him.

Robby rose and swallowed. He was suddenly aware of the gazes that locked on him and his homespun, of the words hissed behind his back. They liked him not. They respected him for what he did, not who he was. For when they needed him on the battlefield, they would praise him. But that would drift away into ignorance as months without a single raiding would pass and peace would swell the grain stores and the bellies of the nobles. And they would forget. Worse, they would come to ask if the principle of precaution was worth it to keep up with the inconvenience of a full clan of gargoyles inside the castle walls. They would ask why archers and cavalry and the steepness of the cliffs were not enough in terms of defence – and why they should put trust in monsters rather than in humans. And they would get anxious, an anxiety that could turn into fear at any time. Then, they would not stop at jokingly calling him “Captain of the Gargoyles”. This is why he had to be judicious. Today, he had decided to take matters into his own hands.

“The credit is not mine to take, Your Highness. Without Goliath and his gargoyles our defence would have proven useless.”

Robby was pleased that he had spoken without wavering. Today of all days, they had to listen to him. They could not shy away from the truth forever. As he watched how Katherine’s face fell, however, Robby felt his stomach clenching in response.

“Please, don't mention that _monster's_ name in my presence.”

Robby balled his fists in disbelief, and then swallowed around the hard lump of trepidation in his throat. But it was too late. Robby did not turn as the door to the dining hall rumbled open. A sudden draft sent candles flickering and quenched the warmth of the victory celebrations. The music stopped abruptly, the laughter faded and a flurry of hushed voices rose instead.

Because he did not turn, he saw how the chalice slipped from the mage’s elongated fingers and spilled red on the white of the tablecloth. He saw how Katherine’s eyes widened, how her mouth opened without making a sound. And when a threatening snarl rang out from the entrance and rolled through the Great Hall, Robby only closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the end of Act I: "Dusk Raid" and I will mark this work thereby as completed. I don't know if and when I will make it to the next act (Act II: "Monsters", which will feature what is happening entirely from the gargoyle perspective), because of several other WIPs. I had a lot of fun writing this, however. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated and I am also open to constructive critique! If you want to discuss how I interpreted a certain moment or scene, I would enjoy to hear from you!


End file.
